Breakfast
by Cyggie Stardust
Summary: Jeanne is not a morning person. Bayonetta is not a "Jeanne is not a morning person" person.


**Title**: Breakfast

**Fandom**: Bayonetta. Cheesy happy domestic AU thing.

**Pairing**: BayoJeanne.

**Spoilers**? Uh, I suppose zero-hour spoiler if you haven't beaten the first game/started the second one (either-or), but skirting it would be odd, considering these two.

(Disclaimer: Do not own anything. Thanks be to Platinum Games and Sega, and also Nintendo because OH MY GOD IF BAYO 2 DIDN'T JUST CONFIRM HEADCANON AND ARTBOOK.)

Summary: Jeanne is not a "morning person." Bayonetta is not a "Jeanne not being a morning person" person.

* * *

><p>Jeanne is lucky that Cereza sleeps like a brick. The fact that she came in at four in the morning (Cereza guesses—it was the right guess last time, and the arrival time has been consistent the last few days) is clear. The motorcycle leathers are—well, she guesses somewhere in the pile of fancy pillows that has been dragged onto the floor. There's a pair of fancy boots in the pile, without feet in them. A pair of glasses is hooked off one side of the right boot, the only concession to organization. A red satin duvet, one Cereza <em>very distinctly<em> remembers folding and putting away, is on top of this jumbled pile.

A quick glance at this pile and she sees a faint glitter of silver-blonde.

"I wonder how many drinks this hangover is," Cereza wonders aloud. Of course, there is no response from the pile.

The sun has been up for half an hour, however, and there's no time for this.

There is a sharp _SNAP, _magically amplified as one of Madama Butterfly's hands materializes from a portal and yanks the blinds open.

"_GOOD MORNING!"_

Jeanne makes a pathetic squeaking sound.

"Well, it's not _my_ fault you're hungover, now is it?" Cereza asks.

"Cereza," Jeanne whines, rolling over, "please stop. I've only been asleep for an hour."

"And whose fault is that?" So what if Jeanne can't see the raised eyebrow waggle. It can't be helped.

"Cosm."

"Cosm?" Cereza repeats.

"Cosm O'Politan."

Normally this caliber of joke would get a laugh from Cereza, but it's one too many four-am returns this week, and all it nets Jeanne this time is a variant of the tablecloth trick—she yanks the top blanket off of her, and one from underneath, rolling her off the pillows and onto a noticeably colder floor.

"_WAKE. UP._"

"No." Jeanne pulls a pillow over her head in an attempt to hide from the light.

As the blankets land, Cereza notices that this time around Jeanne has prepared for this sort of treatment, wearing a t-shirt and shorts to protect against the cold floor.

Not that it was about to help her.

"Nice try," Cereza says, and snaps her fingers again.

And Madama Butterfly's right hand first takes the pillow away from Jeanne, throws it in the general direction of the couch, and then lifts the blonde witch off of the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"I told you, it is time to wake up," Cereza answers, casually leading them towards the bath and its tubful of cold water.

She was _very_ careful to be out of there before both the splash and the screech.

"Good morning! You look lovely," Cereza says as Jeanne walks into the dining room in a bathrobe, the wardrobe having already been consigned to the laundry loads of the day.

"You threw me into a tub of ice water, _fully clothed_," Jeanne says, glaring.

"Oh, come now," she says. "There was no ice in there." Madama Butterfly's hand materializes briefly for a fist bump. "Besides, isn't that what you do for a hangover?"

"One, that's a cold shower, not a tub of ice water," Jeanne corrects, "and two, I was fully clothed!"

"Well, you seem to be feeling better," Cereza says.

Jeanne opens her mouth to rebut the assertion, but is interrupted when a plate of tiny, golden, _delicious-_looking things is suddenly lifted to the same level as her "Excuse you"-waggling finger.

"Mini quiche Lorraine?"

Pause.

Cereza waves the plate from one side to the other.. That eyebrow is back, and it has a smile to go with it. There has _never_ been any resisting the quiche Lorraine and she knows it.

Jeanne takes a quiche, attempting a glare. "You know I'm still upset with you."

"No, you aren't."

"No, I'm not."

Pause.

"I'll get you back later."

"No you won't."

"Probably not."

Really, it was no wonder breakfast was their favorite meal.


End file.
